


What's in a Name? (Or a Body, More Like)

by dannyPURO



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyswap, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Resolved bodyswap?, Smut, back massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 06:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15790641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: It goes like this: one moment, Grantaire is drafting poster designs in his sketchbook; the next, he is standing in the kitchen, Enjolras’s kitchen, staring down at a carton of Chinese takeout and a pair of slender, familiar hands. He hasn’t even figured out what’s happened and he already almost passes out.





	What's in a Name? (Or a Body, More Like)

It goes like this: one moment, Grantaire is drafting poster designs in his sketchbook; the next, he is standing in the kitchen, Enjolras’s kitchen, staring down at a carton of Chinese takeout and a pair of slender, familiar hands. He hasn’t even figured out what’s happened and he already almost passes out.

Back up.

Grantaire is over at Enjolras’s apartment, against all odds. Enjolras had stopped him after the meeting with a hand on his arm and had asked, almost timid and so very un-Enjolrasian, if Grantaire was busy that night, or if he could come over to his place. For consultation purposes, of course-- he’d been wanting to work in some active input while Grantaire worked on the posters. 

(“I’ll make you some coffee,” he’d tacked on, as if Grantaire wouldn’t follow him anywhere, do anything and everything he asked. “Besides, I need to work on a speech. I like your input. It helps me make my arguments.”

Who was Grantaire to argue with that, when he couldn’t even formulate any kind of response at all because Enjolras  _ likes his input _ , what the  _ hell. _ So he’d gone. He’d followed Enjolras home, taken the metro with him, and then worked, side by side with him, at the table in the living room. And then Enjolras had gotten up to heat up some leftover lo mein.)

Back to the present. 

Grantaire looks down at himself just as he hears a shriek from the next room. A shriek in  _ his voice,  _ and why is he wearing Enjolras’s shirt, and why does it fit him, and-

Oh, no.

He stumbles over to the microwave, bends down to look at his reflection in it, and is both impossibly shocked and hardly surprised when he is faced with Enjolras’s lopsided little bun, Enjolras’s wide eyes, Enjolras’s perfect jawline, and Enjolras’s whole self staring back at him. 

“Enjolras?” he calls out weakly, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. Enjolras’s voice. Fuck.

“I-” And that’s his voice, again, rough and uncertain. “I think something has happened, Grantaire.”

He has to laugh, despite himself, because it’s endlessly bizarre to hear something so undoubtedly  _ Enjolras _ from his own mouth. “Your powers of perception grow every single day.” He takes a deep breath and walks out of the kitchen, and there he is, sitting at the table, staring down at his hands. “Enj?”

He looks up and visibly startles. “I- I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Like I do?” Grantaire settles down on the couch, and it’s so, so weird to be this small. 

He tries not to think about what Enjolras must be thinking about his body. Lord knows there’s significantly worse things to be said. 

Enjolras joins him on the couch. “I just think it’s important that we figure out what’s happened.”

“Knowing won’t put you back in your body, Apollo.” Grantaire doesn’t… he doesn’t know why he feels the need to argue with Enjolras all the time. Or, well, he does, he really does, but he doesn’t know why he feels the need to argue right  _ now _ . Alas, too late.

“Excuse me for trying to find a solution.”

“You’re not trying to find a solution, you’re trying to find something to blame and glare at. I’m surprised you haven’t just selected me and gotten it over with.”

Enjolras bristles, which looks strange yet oddly familiar. “I don’t know what you mean to say by-”

“You do.”

“I’m sorry, I thought my problem was that I do too much. I didn’t realize that I’d inherited your inefficiency when I-”

Grantaire’s phone rings in Enjolras’s pocket. Enjolras starts, pulls it out, and hands it to Grantaire, who shakes his head. 

“You should answer it. Cause of your voice.”

Enjolras nods wordlessly and takes the call.

“Hello?”

Grantaire can hear Jehan faintly on the other end. Thank God it’s not the gallery owner, at least. At least Jehan will just think he’s drunk if Enjolras is weird.

“I-” Enjolras breaks off and looks to Grantaire for help, as if Grantaire even knows what Jehan asks. 

He shrugs.

Enjolras bites his lip. “No, I’m staying the night at Enjolras’s apartment. It’s too late to head back.”

A pause.

“Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Another. 

“You’re not making any sense. I have to go, Jehan. We’re… we’re eating dinner. Goodbye.”

A final pause.

“I love you too.”

He hangs up and looks at Grantaire, sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire frowns. “What for?”

“I’m freaked out. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

It’s so unprompted that Grantaire has no idea what to say, so Enjolras continues. 

“Combeferre says I do that a lot. So you aren’t wrong. I just don’t mean to.”

“It’s okay.” Grantaire rubs at his neck uncomfortably, then pauses, wincing. Because lord almighty, the  _ knots _ . “Christ, have you got walnuts in here? How are you so  _ tense _ ?”

Enjolras has the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m a very high-strung person. I- I’m sorry, I don’t usually notice, I obviously didn’t realize it would be a problem for you, I didn’t-” He looks down at his lap. “I could help.”

“What?”

“I could give you a massage. After all, it is my fault you’re in pain.”

“I’m not in pain, Apollo,” he says, but he can’t quite bring himself to pass up on the opportunity. The chance for him to have Enjolras touching him. Christ, he’s a freak. He clears his throat. “But they’re your shoulders, so do as you will.”

He ends up between Enjolras’s thighs-- his  _ own _ thighs, really, eyes shut, mouth slack, reveling in the feeling of strong hands working the knots out of his shoulders. It’s nice, it’s so nice, and it’s hardly even sullied by the fact that they aren’t really Enjolras’s hands, because Enjolras is touching him and he’s doing it on purpose. 

Enjolras digs into a particularly tight knot and he full-on whimpers.

“Sorry,” Enjolras whispers.

“‘S okay.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how long the massage goes on. He justifies himself with the thought that he’s helping Enjolras in the future, really, but in truth, he’s a selfish bastard and the idea of Enjolras’s hands on him is almost too much to bear. Just for a moment, he lets himself consider what it would feel like for real: delicate, thin, cold fingers; the brush of Enjolras’s thighs against his shoulders. 

Like that would ever happen.

Enjolras does stop, eventually, and Grantaire is left hopelessly dazed. He scrambles to get off the floor and face Enjolras, and when he does, Enjolras is wearing a flushed expression that looks exceptionally familiar on Grantaire’s ruddy face. “I-”

“It’s a little late,” Enjolras says, sparing Grantaire the uncomfort of trying to figure out what to say. “I’ll get you some pajamas. I’m going to go to bed.”

He’s gone and back in an instant, holding pajama pants, an old shirt, a pair of boxers, a blanket, and a pillow. “The couch folds out. You can come get me if you can’t figure it out, but you’ll be able to. Bathroom is the door just there.” 

And then he’s gone again, and Grantaire is left with an armful of Enjolras’s things. 

He goes into the bathroom. He feels weird as anything using Enjolras’s toothbrush, but he feels worse not brushing his teeth, and it’s the only option, and it’s for the right mouth, so he does. He washes his face, tells himself Enjolras will just have to wait for a shower until he’s back in his own body, and then turns towards the clothes that he’s set out.

He can’t let himself look.

He wants to, God, he wants to, but he can’t let himself take advantage of the situation to creep on Enjolras. He just can’t. He allows himself the jut of his hips, the flat planes of his stomach, before he squeezes his eyes shut and gets dressed like that. 

He emerges from the bathroom, hair rumpled even more than is normal, much later than necessary, but dressed, and clean. Clean enough.

He sets himself to work on the pull-out sofa. 

It looks simple, of course it looks simple, but he can’t figure it out for the life of him, so he tiptoes over to Enjolras’s bedroom and eases the door open and-

And-

Christ.

Enjolras is knelt in front of the mirror, shirt off, hand on his dick. Hand on  _ Grantaire’s _ dick. While he’s watching  _ Grantaire’s _ face in the mirror, and he must be close, because that’s the face that Grantaire knows he makes when he’s gonna come, and what the  _ hell. _

“What the hell?” Grantaire murmurs, and his dick is getting so hard, so fast, in his pajamas that he can hardly think.

Enjolras freezes, yanks his hand out of his pants, and scrambles away from the mirror. He looks desperate, he looks… beautiful, somehow, though it’s Grantaire’s face and Grantaire is so far from beautiful it’s laughable. Enjolras seems to be beautiful by definition. “I-”

Grantaire shakes his head to clear it. “I- um… I couldn’t… the futon?”

Enjolras swears. “Shit, right, the futon.” He doesn’t get up, but puts his head in his hands. “Shit.” He scrapes Grantaire’s curls back, like he’s forgotten they aren’t so long as his own and he doesn’t need to push them out of his eyes. 

“You were-”

“I’m so, so sorry.” Enjolras looks up at him, eyes desperate and pupils blown. What familiarity. “I… I don’t even know how to apologize to you, you must feel so violated, I don’t know what I was thinking, you can feel free never to talk to me again as soon as we get this fixed, I’m sorry, I-”

“You were jerking off to me.”

Enjolras winces. “I can’t apologize enough.” He’s still hard.

Grantaire is hard, too. “Do you… want me?”

Enjolras, if possible, flushes even deeper red. “I-”

“Enjolras.”

“Always.” He says it so soft Grantaire would have missed it if he weren’t suddenly so, so close. 

“Enj-” His voice cracks, and he falls to his knees in front of Enjolras.

“R?”

And then they’re kissing, fast and desperate and it should be so, so bizarre, and it is a little weird, honestly, but mostly, Grantaire can only think about the fact that he’s kissing Enjolras. Enjolras, who wants him.  _ Always.  _ Enjolras, who invited him over for coffee before everything went to shit. Enjolras, who was jerking himself off, jerking  _ Grantaire _ off, to the sight of Grantaire’s face in the mirror. 

“You’re so hot, R,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire would make a joke about Narcissus, only just then Enjolras turns them to the mirror. “I couldn’t help it. You make me so hot.”

Grantaire mostly just can’t believe this is happening to him. “You’re stunning.”

“Do you want to see?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire doesn’t understand, at first, but then Enjolras is tugging at Grantaire’s shirt, and then his pants, and then they’re both naked in front of the mirror and Grantaire thinks he’s going to straight up die, right then and there. He reaches a hand down, but then hesitates, and Enjolras wraps a hand around his and guides it around his cock. Enjolras’s cock, Grantaire’s cock, whatever, he feels it all the same. 

He mouths at Enjolras’s neck, revels in just being close to him, tries not to think about what’s happening because he knows he won’t understand. Enjolras groans, holds him tight against his chest, and opens his hand just enough to let Grantaire extricate his own and to take both of their cocks in it, together. 

And… that’s a lot. That’s a lot. Grantaire knows his own cock pretty well; they’ve been acquainted for quite a while, but Enjolras’s cock is new and beautiful and  _ Enjolras _ is new, too, and all of it makes Grantaire just want to come. He runs his hands up and down Enjolras’s back, pulls him in for a kiss with a hand locked in his hair, and comes with a whimper that he wants to remember because it isn’t his, it’s  _ Enjolras _ ’s.

Enjolras comes a moment later, gasping for breath, and they collapse to the floor together, breathing and nothing more.

“You know,” Grantaire says, after what could have been minutes or what could have been hours. “The floor can’t be good for your back. If you’re doing this with everyone you trade bodies with, there’s no wonder you’ve got so many knots.”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “To bed, then.” 

They stand with some difficulty and get under Enjolras’s covers together, side by side. “Sleep,” Grantaire says. “We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

They do.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire wakes up to sunlight in his face and, quite appropriately, to the sight of Enjolras, his Apollo, inches away and gorgeous as anything he’s ever seen-- soft from sleep, hair in the ponytail Grantaire had put them in the night before, and in bed with Grantaire.

He shakes him awake. “Enjolras,” he murmurs. “Apollo, good news.”

Enjolras cracks an eye open, sees Grantaire, and smiles. “Good news, you say?”

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras kisses him, solid and indisputable. “That is good news.”

**Author's Note:**

> ah, the enjoltaire bodyswap porn that literally nobody asked for or wanted. i aim to please. 
> 
> how did this happen? doesn't matter. not your business.


End file.
